Not My Type
by jayjaybee
Summary: Oneshot, Rizzoli and Isles crossover with Law and Order and Women's Murder Club. A glimpse at some of Maura's past relationships offers insight into her claim in Rizzoli and Isles 1.06 that Jane's just not her type.


A/N: Rashly dipping my toes dangerously in not one, not two, but three new fandoms all at once...

Disclaimer: I own nothing...except maybe a massive crush on Angie Harmon.

* * *

Maura Isles knew what she was drawn to in a woman. She liked women who had determination and drive, high achievers who excelled at their chosen profession. Women who were strong, mentally and physically, and who were not afraid to stand their ground and fight for what they believed in. Women who were deceptively complex: prickly on the outside but soft and sweet once their defenses were down. Women who were athletic and well-toned, tall, with dark hair and dark eyes.

Oh yes, Maura Isles certainly had a type.

Trouble was, her type typically made terrible girlfriends. The women she liked were so driven by their work they were awful at making time for a relationship and appalling at long-term commitment. Though their strong-mindedness always started out as a source of delightful tension, their inability to compromise inevitably became a source of deep irritation. Because they worked in fiercely competitive, male-dominated environments, they were often closet cases. And because Maura usually met these women at work, when things went wrong (as they predictably did) the workplace became fraught with difficulties.

Yes, Maura Isles certainly had a type. And she'd had more than enough of her type. She'd fallen again and again for impossible women, and she wasn't going to let it happen again.

* * *

**2001 - New York **

"Yes, or no? Yes or no, Doctor Isles? Did the puncture wound cause his death, or didn't it?" The tall brunette stalked the courtroom as if she owned it, her piercing gaze focused intently on the witness stand.

"The evidence suggests that it is possible but not certain..."

"Yes or no?"

"The body was in such an advanced state of decomposition that I am not willing to..."

"Yes or no?"

Directing an exasperated look at the Judge, Maura Isles replied firmly. "I cannot answer that question. The evidence is not conclusive."

"Ms Carmichael," Judge Matthews warned.

Abbie Carmichael held up a hand in acknowledgment. "To what, then, are you willing to commit? Anything at all?" Her tone was scathing.

Maura narrowed her eyes at the woman in front of her. "As I stated in my original autopsy report, the victim suffered a number of significant of wounds, the precise chronology of which it is difficult to establish. However, what I have been able to determine is..."

xXx

Maura had decided that a brisk walk would do more to burn off her frustration and anger than would a cab ride, but the day was chillier than she'd bargained for, and though her fury was still warm, her extremities certainly were not. The sight of a street cart selling hot drinks just inside the park entrance had offered too tempting an opportunity to warm her hands and regain circulation in her fingers and as she bent over the little counter, stirring milk into her black tea, she suddenly stiffened at the sound of a familiar voice ordering coffee and pretzels.

She took a moment to compose herself, affixed the lid securely to her takeaway cup, and then, with steely conviction in her eyes, spun round to face her antagonist of the last two hours.

Abbie Carmichael was passing cups to Detectives Briscoe and Curtis.

"Doctor Isles," Briscoe nodded a greeting to Maura, and Curtis raised a hand.

"Detectives," Maura smiled curtly, and then, without acknowledging the ADA's presence, turned and strode away.

Abbie rolled her eyes infinitisimally, and emitted an almost imperceptible sigh. She turned to her colleagues, ready to continue the conversation about the case they'd been in the middle of. And then she thought better of it.

'Lenny, hold that," she said, barely giving him a chance to respond as she thrust her coffee cup into his hand. She hurried after the other woman, her longer legs helping her make up the distance quickly.

"Maura, wait."

Maura stopped, facing her with fury in her eyes."No, Abbie. No. It's not my fault that you haven't found sufficient evidence to convict him. The autopsy is inconclusive and I am not willing to perjure myself." She stepped closer, the anger in her voice increasing even as she lowered her tone. "Just because we're sleeping together does not mean I'm going falsify evidence, or claim that it supports theories that it doesn't."

"I know," Abbie shrugged. "I wasn't asking you to."

Maura blinked, suddenly wrongfooted by Abbie's conciliatory tone.

"What - what was all that about in there, then?"

"You were doing your job. I was doing mine. Showing the jury how inconclusive the medical evidence was. That's all."

"That's all?"

Abbie nodded.

"Oh."

Abbie reached out and touched Maura's arm gently, briefly. "And you were good in there - you gave me a great work out. I've seen grown men crack under those tactics..." Abbie's smile teased Maura, and Maura fought the urge to return it. "Besides, the defendant's sister came forward with new information. Lenny and Rey raided an apartment on east thirty-seventh this morning. We've got an adjournment - he'll be begging to plead Man Two by the time we've finished with him."

"Oh. That's...good news."

They stood for a moment, awkwardly, something of an apology hovering in Abbie's eyes even if she were not quite willing to verbalize it. "Look, I'd better be getting back," she said, eventually.

Maura nodded, turning to go.

"Come round to mine this evening," Abbie said. "I'll make you dinner."

Despite the annoyance she was still feeling, Maura gave a quiet laugh. "Aren't you meant to be making it up to me, not trying to poison me?"

"OK, I'll order in."

Maura shook her head. She was not prepared to let Abbie get off so easily. "No. Take me out. Pick me up at seven thirty." And, refusing to give Abbie the chance to make her usual protests about the danger of being outed if they were seen together in public, she turned and walked swiftly away.

* * *

**2008 - San Francisco **

Over the hum of a bone saw, the chatter of voices could be heard approaching the autopsy room, and, for a number of different reasons, Maura found herself suppressing a happy smile. She powered down the tool, and looked up to greet her new colleagues - the group of women who, in just a few short weeks, had become her new friends. A harassed-looking Lindsay Boxer was the first to enter the autopsy room, closely pursued by a shorter redhead, who, in turn, was followed at a more leisurely pace by a woman with shockingly blonde hair.

"Come on Linds, who is he?" Cindy Thomas, the redhead, was looking pointedly at the detective.

"Lindsay's got herself a secret boyfriend," Jill Bernhardt said by way of explanation, holding out a takeaway cup of coffee to the medical examiner, and then, suddenly realizing that Maura was elbow-deep in corpse, putting the drink down and hastily stepping away.

"I have not!" Lindsay protested, flashing a look at Maura that was equal parts helpless and threatening.

"Well, where were you all weekend?" Cindy persisted with her questioning. "I called you, like five times, and your phone was off..."

"And," Jill added, "There's a certain - well - spring in your step - that I've not seen since you had thing with that architect. You know, that one you went out with for about two minutes before you scared him off Vietnam."

"- Cambodia."

Cindy waved a hand dismissively. "Wherever."

"Yeah, never let the facts get in the way of a good story, eh Cindy?" Lindsay retaliated, trying, and failing, to shift the focus of attention.

"Oh my god, is he back, then? Why didn't you say?"

"Pete's not back. I've not heard from him in months."

"Are you sure?" Cindy turned the full force of her journalistic scrutiny on her friend.

"Yes, I'm sure." Lindsay glared back.

"Well - there's still something about you. Something - uncharacteristic."

Jill smirked. "Yeah - like uncharacteristically you've been getting laid."

Lindsay scowled, stuffing her hands further into her jeans pockets. "Doctor Isles doesn't need to hear all this," she protested, shooting Maura a guilty - and possibly apologetic - glance as she made a determined grab for the case files that were stacked on the table, and attempted to redirect the conversation to the dead body lying in front of them.

Her attempt failed.

"She does," Cindy - as ever the proverbial dog with a bone - was not to be put off. "While she's filling in for Claire she's a honorary member of the club..."

As Lindsay and Jill gave the automatic reflex response, "There is no club!" Cindy grinned at Maura and winked, letting her know that there was indeed a club, and she was very much a welcome part of it. There was something in the friendly inclusiveness of that gesture and its promise of companionship and camaraderie that almost drowned out the twinge of hurt that had caught Maura when Lindsay had so shiftily evaded questions about her weekend whereabouts. Almost, but not quite. She'd known Lindsay was unlikely to admit that they'd been together, but she hadn't known that her evasions would make her feel quite this horrible.

Completely unaware of the turmoil she was creating within the medical examiner, Cindy returned to the task at hand, namely making Lindsay squirm. "So, you've been getting laid. Who is he?"

"There is no he!" Lindsay snapped, and a bubble of surprised hope began to rise in Maura. And then her eyes met Lindsay's, and the bubble popped as she recognized that the probability of the detective confessing whose bed she had been in all weekend was precisely nil. "I was...look, my phone was bust, is all. Really, can't I just go off grid for a day without you bringing on the Spanish Inquisition? And in case you happen to have forgotten, we're in the middle of a homicide investigation here. Can we all get back to doing the jobs we're paid for?"

As Jill looked mildly, but insincerely sheepish, and Cindy muttered "Sniffing out other people's business _is_ my job," Maura picked up her cue to inform them of her discoveries so far, and Lindsay desperately tried to pretend that she hadn't just dug herself into a pretty deep hole with her best friends _and_ her lover.

* * *

**2011 - Boston **

Abbie, Lindsay, and now Jane. Oh god, Jane was so absolutely her type.

She'd fallen for her type again and again, and each time she'd ended up hurt. She wasn't going to make that mistake again.

Maura wasn't unobservant. She was more than aware of a very real connection between herself and Jane. The crackle and fizz as they sparred together over dead bodies, pushing each other's buttons, teasing each other, touching each other. She knew that under the layers of denial she wore as armour, Jane wanted her. And she wanted Jane. A lot. Because Jane was, so very clearly, her type.

Maura just couldn't let it happen. Not again. She knew how this story would end. Badly. And so, she'd emphatically declared her type off limits, and she would set Jane up with men, with Jorge, hell, even with other women if she had to, but she was not going to get involved with her herself.

Her type could no longer be her type.

Which meant that, when, one evening, she happened to find herself in Jane's bedroom with, frankly, an enormous glass of wine, she could say to Jane, "You're not my type," and mean it. Never mind that her body was giving off cues to the contrary, Maura had made her decision and she was going to stick to it. And since it was a decision she had made and was going to stick to, there could be no danger in _accidentally_ falling asleep in Jane's bed - right?


End file.
